Strange Things Are Afoot In Ancient Rome
by imjlotherealone
Summary: Notes: Anachronistic elements are referenced on purpose. Not based on CoMC, but bears a similar plot. This is my Latin 4H quarter project, so criticize the hell out of it. Message me with ideas, PLEEEZ.
1. Chapter 1

_Bang. Bang._

The judge signaled for silence. The clamor continued, and the commotion was enough to drive him mad. And, he thought, just wait until the media arrives.

_Bangbangbangbangbangbang._

He rattled off a series of blows like the hammer of a machinegun, although of course, he had no idea what a machinegun was.

The crowd was silenced, but not because of the enthusiastic endeavors of the judge, but by the entrance of a shackled girl. She was a piteous sight, her skin wearing layers of dirt and a toga that had seen far better days, her eyes blackened and arms purpled by the cruel proposals of her jailer, her lips torn and bleeding from the harsh bread and acrid water. A cry of disapproval arose almost instantaneously from the medley crowd, boos interspersed with missiles composed of rotten vegetation, pelted at the jury and the court officials. The aging judge for once wished his dais was slightly higher, and further away from the savage bombardment of tomatoes, lettuce, and unidentifiable flying objects.

Of course, he had petitioned the emperor not once, not twice, but three times to close the courts to the _res publica, _all of which were gently refused. The court cases were good publicity, naturally, and the judge was politely told to deal with the _tumultus_ himself.

I was there in that crowd, and I stood out, silent and still among the rabidly chanting mobs. It wasn't my intention to attract her attention, but somehow it felt as if I did. But she wouldn't have recognized me anyways.

The judge finally peeked his head out, hearing the din lessen as the underpaid guards cracked their spears on the backs of the unfortunate _agricolae_, who, inexperienced in Roman city-life, had taken a holiday in the cold season and arrived at the courthouse early for their eagerly awaited spectacle.

A young man was now standing next to the girl.

The judge glanced back down at the file: _Polla Flavia, age 16. Quintus Caecilius Jucundus, age 27. _

He glanced up again. Rarely were ever seen prisoners in this sort of condition. At least common criminals were only either beaten, raped, or unfed; these two were subjected to a combination of the three. The young man was constantly shifting in his chair and groaning from noticeable discomfort, having obviously been raped a fair bit. _Hmm…I'll have to make some rearrangements with the staff. Put the gays in the women's prison at the south side, maybe. Or stick them in an office with some paperwork. _With funding as low as it was, there was little chance of hiring different guards. The emperor had a habit of throwing lavish orgies, and of course, he selected to withdraw funds from the arm of government with the least ability to complain. Never mind that the cells had no latrines, and the food was excess pig slop sold at the farmer's market, the Emperor must have his whores from Babylon, Egypt and Gaul. _Ugh. These heathen barbarians are going to be the downfall of Roman civilization one day. Together with corruption, overextension, political instability, and those strange Christians who tried to stop the gladiator games. _

The judge looked down again. _They must have fucked up something horrid to be given this kind of barbaric treatment._ He read on. _Ah yes. Offing a senator. That might do it. Sparsus…_The name grabbed his attention. There was something so _softly, suggestively_ familiar about it.

The prosecuting _advocatus_ had arrived unnoticed several minutes earlier. The judge's eyes immediately darted to the copious and profligate hair that dominated his face. The hair, of course, had been grown purposely to conceal a face ravaged by syphilis. The consequential facial gummata had erased almost all distinguishable features, leaving him without lips, eyebrows, or nose, his face resembling a WWI battlefield, devoid of vegetation and punctured by numerous craters. The _advocatus_ turned his head and returned the judge's stare. A redness rose in the judge's face, and he quickly averted his eyes and signaled the _ianitores_ to shut the doors. A mustiness immediately began to manifest itself in the air, the stink of cheap lard mixed with expensive perfumes, of sulfur and bath-house sweat.

"Court is in session."


	2. Chapter 2

The dull roar of the audience fell to a soft lapping.

"Case #24601, Roman Empire vs. Polla Flavia and Quintus Caecilius. Would the plaintiff please stand?"

The man pulled himself to his feet, then spoke upon the indication of the judge.

"_Advocatus _Gaius Metellus, representing the Roman Empire."

"What is your case?"

"One count of murder, one of breaking and entering, and one of grand theft on the order of 5 million sesterces. Per individual, of course. Bail is set at 1 million sesterces."

The judge motioned for the man to sit.

"Will the defendants please rise?"

The two bedraggled lovers lifted themselves with great effort, weighed down by the cast-iron jewelry that adorned their wrists and ankles.

"Names?"

The girl spoke first.

"Polla Flavia, daughter of T. Flavius Clemens."

"Quintus Caecilius Jucundu…" The young man broke into a coughing fit, dousing Polla and his _advocatus_ in globs of blood.

"Jucundus, son of the late Lucius Caecilius Jucundus." He fell back, exhausted by the effort.

"Your _advocatus_?"

"Tiberius Severus Hymenaeus, honor." The _advocatus_ was stumpy, and the judge peered over his dais to look at him. He was obviously overworked, and bags of flesh drooped beneath his eyes. _Here was a pair,_ the judge chuckled,_ a cripple with a fucked-up face, and a short, fat, and overworked public defendant._

"Are there any requests before we begin?"

A few of the _agricolae_ pointed towards the door.

"What is this, the fucking stone ages?" The _agricolae _stared at the judge blankly.

"Go. Go!"

The _ianitores _responded to the judge's signal and swung the doors open, while the onlookers within sighed, their nasal passages temporarily relieved.

_Clang!_ The doors shut again.

"Opening statements, gentlemen."


	3. Chapter 3

There was a young girl standing at a window, looking out at the narrow _viae_. The air had the crispness that came with the maturation of fall, and the scent of a million souls seeking asylum before the winter cold. It was market season for the summer crops, and the roads were inundated with farmers and their pungent children. Every morning, when the city gates were opened and the city dwellers yawning and willing themselves to rise; that was when the droves of _agricolae _and their shoddy horse drawn carts stampeded into the city, signaling the start of a new day more effectively than any Apollo-sent courier. But the city paid a price for this rowdy wake-up call. In most other sections of the city, horse shit abounded. No one would dare to pick up something carelessly dropped, and of late, not even money. Kids in those areas had recently begun to mold pieces of horse-shit in golden foil, and leave heaps of them lying forlorn and master-less in the street. It was a pretty shitty thing to do to other people, but most locals quickly caught on, and the prank found its victims in visitors, such as, ironically, the farmers.

But here, any horse caught taking a shit was killed and its owner imprisoned. Here was where the great artists and their noble patrons lived, and where the richer members of the bourgeoisie held their pretensions of aristocracy. Here, also, was where the shady bribes and corrupt dealings took place, under a sun-drenched roof and behind golden doors, intrigues of a single room altering the destiny of a thousand others. Behind these lavish facades and matted doorways lay the real underbelly of society.

_A Coliseum of politics, _she thought. Her heart began to pound as she saw her man weave his way through the idle evening streets. He was unnecessarily disguised; no one here had seen him before. The stairs creaked slightly as she crept downstairs, but the her husband's slaves were too heavily drugged to hear anything less than an atomic bomb.

She opened the door before he reached the steps.

He hurriedly rushed in.

"You did everything on the list?"

She affirmed, and held up a paper; everything had been checked off. But it wasn't much of a relief. Her heartbeat quickened.

"When?"

"At dark." There was a clatter as he dropped an inconspicuous cloth knapsack on a chair.

The girl clutched her chest, fearing a heart attack from the sudden noise.

"It's practically dark now." She spoke in a whisper, but there was a tinge of frenzy to it.

"Dark is when the _vigiles _won't be able to see us when we get the fuck out of Rome. It's just another hour or so." The young man slouched into a chair, and folded his arms. "Don't be so goddamned uptight.", he rebuked. "You make me nervous. Are you sure you can get in?"

"Of course, I saw him open the thing three times, right in front of my eyes."

"But you didn't get to try it."

"You said it would be too risky!" Her voice rose to an indignant mumble. "But I did find a piece of paper with the exact same combination lying in the trash."

"Where? In his study?" The young man was suddenly agitated. "That doesn't make any sense."

"He's an old man, don't worry. He probably couldn't remember it the other day, and copied it down."

He laughed. "I'm right. You _are_ making me nervous."

The girl delighted in his smile, and her heart slowed a little.

"So when we get out of here-"

"Save it for later. I need a nap. Wake me in an hour."

She caught hold of his arms while he stretched. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Go read a scroll or something."


End file.
